Wicked Nights

by Anne Marsh

  “There a fire someplace?” he asked, settling in by her side. Having longer legs was an advantage.

  “I can’t believe they couldn’t choose,” she burst out, ignoring his question.

  “Life’s a bitch,” he agreed. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she stomped across the landing. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell loudly enough to be heard halfway to China.

  She stopped abruptly and he almost body slammed her. Thank God for instincts honed by military training. He snagged the handrail and waited.

  “You didn’t win,” she said, sounding absolutely sure of herself.

  “Neither did you,” he snapped. “Does the lack of a clear-cut winner from today’s meeting bother you?”

  She pursed her lips. He wanted to smooth out the crinkle with his finger. Or his tongue. Apparently, he wasn’t picky.

  Piper, he reminded himself.

  She’d probably bite his finger off. He didn’t kid himself. Whatever twisted reason had prompted her to suggest the bet, it wasn’t because she was attracted to him. Knowing her, it was a power play or some other complicated move in this game she insisted on playing with him. He was the only one who had the urge to change the rules.

  “We had a bet. Not knowing who the winner is doesn’t bother you?” she demanded, answering his question with one of her own.

  It absolutely did. Piper was a sensual temptation, and he found it harder and harder to resist her. He also enjoyed beating her, if only because it made her so adorably mad. That probably wasn’t what she wanted to hear right now, however.

  He opened his mouth and she cocked a hand on her hip. Waiting for him to admit that, yes, he enjoyed competing with her. Fighting with her. Doing...other things with her. The words that came out of his mouth, however, weren’t part of any master plan to win the Fiesta contract.

  “If we’re talking about the bet, it’s safe to say we both lost.”

  She blinked once before regrouping.

  “Good.” She glared up at him, stepping into him and backing him up against the stairwell’s wall. He loved the way she crowded him. “Because you owe me and I plan on collecting.”

  The erotic jolt that went through him should have warned him. Whatever his head thought, his body didn’t see Piper as the enemy.

  7

  CARLA, PIPER’S ASSISTANT, part-time dive instructor, gal Friday and supplier of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, looked up when Piper slammed into the dive shop, the door rattling in its frame. The woman was a gem, and Piper worried sometimes that she would head out for greener pastures—or places with more challenging dive sites. So far, however, Carla had stayed put and Piper was grateful. When Carla raised an inquiring brow, Piper flipped the open sign to closed. It wasn’t like they were busy anyhow.

  Which was part of the problem. The darn economy followed by a bad summer storm had definitely put a dent in their business. In the wake of the storm, several cruise ships had skipped the island altogether, and the island’s hotels had been hit by a second storm of cancellations. Discovery Island had scrambled to clean up and make repairs quickly, but still, all of those things took time—and dive bookings had been drastically reduced.

  Carla had screwed her blond hair up on top of her head in a messy bun anchored by a flotilla of pencils. Small curls flew every which way, giving the woman a deceptively cute appeal. Carla was as lethal as a shark. She held up a bottle of sparkling apple cider, thumb poised to pop the cap off. “Are we celebrating? Did you kick Cal’s butt?”

  Piper shook her head and tossed her heels across the room. So much for making a powerful statement at the Fiesta meeting.

  “Commiserating. Shoot.” Carla poured cider into paper cups, passed one to Piper and took a swig. “We need alcohol. Margaritas. These bubbles aren’t commiseration material.”

  Piper was in full agreement with her, but surely something would occur to her. There was always a way to rescue a bad dive.

  “We tied. We both lost. Take your pick.”

  Carla muttered something, and Piper pointed toward the swear jar stashed underneath the counter. They’d had plenty of conversations about not cursing like a trucker in the workplace, as the Mason jar full of quarters testified. Piper was just as guilty in that department as Carla. The local library would be able to afford an addition when they made their donation.

  “We didn’t get the contract.” Carla fished a quarter out of her pocket and added it to their collection.

  “Not yet.” Piper took a drink. The cider was warm, and alcohol was definitely called for in this situation. “But we will.”

  She gave Carla the highlights as she ducked into the backroom and switched her business casual for a pair of denim cutoffs and a tank top, restoring the flip-flops when she was dressed. Her feet practically cried in relief, even as her knee gave a warning throb.

  “Typical guys. They can’t choose between you and Cal, so they offer to date both of you before committing.”

  “There was a woman executive,” Piper pointed out in the interests of fairness when she came back out front.

  Carla finished her cup and eyed the bottle. “That stuff is definitely no substitute for the real thing.”

  “It was cheap.” And she was out of cash unless she robbed the swear jar, a low to which she had so far refused to sink. Groceries for the month were going to be noodles and whatever was kicking around in the pantry, unless she actually used Cal’s hundred bucks.

  “So, Cal Brennan is still the competition?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Carla settled back, waving her cup. “Why unfortunately?”

  “He’s good,” Piper said morosely, hopping up onto the counter. “Really good. He had them eating out of the palm of his hand as he walked them through imaginary adventure dives. They were practically salivating at the thought of exploring caves and training like a U.S. Navy SEAL.”

  Cal had had her hanging on his every word, too, although only partly because adventure diving was precisely the kind of thing she’d enjoy. Most of her attention span had had everything to do with the hot SEAL doing the presenting. The sensation of his eyes moving over her body gave her the kind of feeling she got when was diving or jumping. An adrenaline rush, followed by a familiar quiver.

  No quivering.

  “You’ll win.” Carla sounded certain. “Your dives are fun. Not everything has to be a mental marathon.”

  Piper appreciated the vote of confidence.

  “So, what are the next steps?”

  “I take them out on a sample dive program. I’ll do a few dry runs this week and next. Make sure I’m ready to go and there’s no room for improvement.”

  Carla reached up and knocked her paper cup against Piper’s. “Cal won’t know what hit him.”

  “He probably won’t mind,” she said. She’d always enjoyed a good competitor, but Cal was in a league of his own. Not only was he a former U.S. Navy SEAL, but he’d also put together a compelling presentation. She wanted to go out diving with him now. Or do other, more personal things. “Plus, he doesn’t play fair.”

  He’d made her go first, although she’d more than evened the playing field by teasing him while he presented.

  “He’s a Navy SEAL. Doesn’t that make him a bona fide hero?”

  “In a war zone, yes. In the boardroom? Not so much.” Of course, she hadn’t been playing fair herself, but she’d keep those details to herself.

  “So...” Carla lobbed the paper cup at the recycle bin. “Was it as horrific as my diver last month, who pulled off his wet suit and his speedo in one go? ’Cause the guy was at least sixty pounds overweight and had never heard of manscaping. My eyes are still burning. Cal Brennan is pretty hot.”

  “It’s not a beauty pageant.”

  “And if it was, you’d win,” her assistant said loyally.

  Piper performed a pageant wave and wiped away a mock tear. “Thank you. I’ll pick up my tiara later.”

  “But he is, right?”

 
Unfortunately, Carla was right. “On a scale of one to ten, he’s a definite ten. Maybe even an eleven if he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “Jump him.” Carla shrugged. “Get him out of your system.”

  Piper didn’t want to even think about how long it had been since she’d had sex. One of the downsides to living on an island with four thousand people was the minuscule size of the dating pool. Casual summer hookups weren’t really her thing, which had further limited her options. Plus, she hadn’t dated much in high school or college. A few casual nights out here and there—practice guys, as her teammates called them. She’d been too busy training and competing to do anything else. If she needed a guy for a formal event, she borrowed one from the swim team and called it good. Getting Cal out of her system shouldn’t have sounded so appealing.

  “I’m not attracted to Cal.” Unfortunately, she couldn’t summon a shred of proof to back up the statement.

  “Not attracted to him? Or you just don’t like him? Because you can totally have sex with him without liking him.”

  True. “Yeah. About that.”

  “You already did!” Carla fist-pumped. “You go!”

  She shot her friend a look. “Absolutely not. There has been no sex. But I may have made a teeny tiny bet with him.”

  Carla stared at her expectantly. “Don’t stop there. Keep talking.”

  “I may have suggested that the person who loses the Fiesta contract takes orders from the winner for one night. In bed.” She thumped her head against the counter. “When will I learn to think before I speak?”

  Carla grinned. “Probably never. You might want to plan on winning.”

  Piper threw her cup at Carla. Unfortunately, she’d done nothing but think about Cal and getting him into bed.

  * * *

  “DID YOU KICK butt and take names?” Daeg didn’t take his eyes off the trail as he asked his question. When Cal had brought his two former teammates over to the island, they’d vowed to work out together five times a week, putting their bodies through their SEAL paces. They might not be active duty anymore, but they’d stay in fighting form. That was one thing Cal could still control.

  Now, four miles into their eight-mile run, he was mentally counting down the seconds until they got to the swimming portion of the day’s workout. So far, he’d managed to keep his fear of submerging under wraps. Or, rather, he’d worked around it well enough that Daeg and Tag were pretending they hadn’t noticed anything. Eventually, however, they’d point out the obvious. Cal didn’t dive. Ever.

  Daeg had come back to Discovery Island at the beginning of the summer when Cal had put out his call for help and now, two months later, it looked as though the man wasn’t going anywhere. He’d rescued Danielle Andrews from the tropical storm that had passed near the island; she’d rescued him from some inner demons of his own. Cal smelled wedding bells in the not-so-distant future. Cal was glad his former teammate had signed on to the dive business permanently, and he was looking forward to bringing more former SEALs out to the island just as soon as he could.

  “I made a few calls,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the path in front of them. “To see if there was anything for sale on Discovery Island. When we bring the new guys on board, we’re going to need more gear and possibly a second site to gear up the divers. With the contract, we’d definitely be in the black, and we could expand and start a second dive shop.”

  He mentioned the name of a business brokerage firm, and Daeg nodded, but didn’t slow his pace.

  “Did they have anything for you?”

  “Yeah. There’s at least one place on the island where the half owner is looking to sell his share. I’ve made an offer, contingent on our getting the Fiesta contract.”

  Daeg whistled. “Which shop?”

  He’d read his email twice to make sure he hadn’t misread. “Dream Big and Dive,” he admitted.

  “Piper’s place?”

  “Apparently it’s only half hers.” Although he had a pretty good idea how she felt about it. “The broker said she has first position to buy if she can line up the funding, but she hasn’t managed to do so, yet.”

  “Does she know we’re bidding to buy out her business partner?”

  “Hell, no. I didn’t know until today myself,” he pointed out. “Plus, there’s already another offer on the place that we’d have to beat. Fiesta also wants a hands-on demo in the field before they’ll finalize the contracts. I’ll tell her when it’s a done deal. If she wins, she’ll exercise her option to buy anyhow, and it’ll be a moot point.”

  Cal focused on the ground in front of him. The trail was rocky, small pieces of gravel crunching underneath his feet. One misstep, and he’d go over the edge and down the bluff into the horseshoe-shaped bay below. In another hundred yards, the trail would bend back toward the sand, but from here he could still see the southernmost end of Pleasure Pier.

  “Four-mile marker,” Tag barked, pounding up behind them. Tag ran the way he’d flown rescue choppers, going all out and then coaxing still more speed from some unseen reserve, right when Cal was sure his friend would crash and burn. Every day had gone the same way when the three of them had been part of the Spec Ops rescue team stationed in San Diego. Fighting, swimming, flying—they’d done it all together, and there were no other guys Cal trusted more to have his back.

  These guys were the heart and soul of Deep Dive. Sure, there was friendly rivalry, but they’d had each other’s backs since Hell Week and their induction into the Navy SEALs. When he’d left the unit and started the dive program on Discovery Island, he’d wanted to bring his team with him. They got the importance of diving and diving well. If he expanded Deep Dive, he could bring in more veterans. To do that, however, he needed more business and more shop space, hence the offer he’d put in through the broker. Without the Fiesta contract, however, his cash flow would be so tight it would squeak.

  They dropped every two miles to bang out push-up reps.

  “When?” Daeg grunted, hitting the ground.

  Cal dropped and started working smoothly through his own reps. “Two weeks from now.”

  Fourteen days didn’t feel like anywhere near enough time to fix what was wrong with his head. Discovery Island had already used up its quota of miracles when it had avoided a direct hit with a tropical storm earlier in the summer.

  “Who’s the competition?” Daeg didn’t turn his head but picked up the pace of the push-ups. Hell. Cal kicked it up a notch. He wasn’t getting out-repped.

  “Who said I had competition?”

  “Eighty-one.” Tag, the overachiever, knocked out a butt-load more than the U.S. Navy’s required forty-two push-ups. If he went back to the SEALs, he’d pass the PT exam without breaking a sweat.

  Cal snuck a peek at his watch on his way toward the ground. Tag had accomplished his mission-impossible numbers in ninety seconds. Tag rolled smoothly onto his back, sucking in air. Ten seconds left. Cal powered through reps, back straight, hands and feet planted on the ground. “Dream Big and Dive’s the last competitor left standing.”

  Daeg whistled and flopped to the ground. “Eighty-seven. You’ve got three seconds to concede defeat. Which you might want to think about doing with Piper. She’s going to be one unhappy woman.”

  Defeat wasn’t a word any of them knew. Cal finished the last rep, arms burning. “Eighty-nine.”

  Tag raised an eyebrow. “The form on your last rep was highly questionable. I’m calling it as a does-not-count.”

  They squabbled amicably for the rest of the two-minute rest period. As soon as Tag called, “Time,” they started crunching. Arms crossed over his chest, fingertips on his shoulders, Cal watched the bay come and go from his field of vision.

  “You really think Dream Big and Dive can beat us?”

  “Not a chance.” He had to work through this, but not with a boatload of divers depending on him. Get in the water. Descend. It wasn’t complicated. He’d logged thousands of dives.

  “Ho
oyah.” Tag jackknifed up smoothly.

  “Piper’s a world-champion diver.” Daeg shot him a glance. “Plus, if Fiesta’s passing out points for personality, she’s going to give us a run for our money.”

  “She didn’t actually make it to the world championships,” Cal pointed out.

  “She earned a berth on the team, and she would have gone if her accident hadn’t busted up her knee. The media had her pegged as a shoo-in for gold. The cruise ship people will eat her history up.”

  Probably. “A good story doesn’t make her the best fit for the job.” He kept his eyes on the harbor and the boats there, bobbing up and down.

  Daeg snorted. “Right. It could be a rout.”

  “A melee. A debacle.” Tag rattled synonyms off as if he was channeling a thesaurus.

  “Face it.” Daeg finished his reps, shoved to his feet and started running down toward the beach. It was Armageddon time. “You don’t know how not to compete.”

  Daeg had a point.

  Cal pounded after his buddy, Tag dogging his heels. As soon as they hit the sand, Daeg toed off his shoes and ran into the water.

  “To the point and back?”

  Tag splashed into the surf. “You bet. Last one back buys the beer.”

  Half a mile out, half a mile back. One thousand seven hundred and sixty yards, and forty-five minutes.

  Damn it. He didn’t want to do this. It didn’t matter how clear and debris free the water was or that he’d bump into nothing if he went under. Ever since the first five-hundred-yard swim of his SEAL Physical Screening Test, the combat sidestroke had been second nature, as easy as walking or running. He swam and swam well, covering five hundred yards in under twelve minutes and competing against himself to better his time. The stroke kept the body low in the water, which was a plus when the day’s mission included bullets flying at him while he swam.

  He’d take bullets any day.

  He toed off his sneakers and dropped his T-shirt on the sand. Then he walked over to the water’s edge. The surf in the bay wasn’t bad, the waves cresting at one to two feet. There was a current to fight on the way out to the point, but on the way back, the same current would push him to shore. The problem wasn’t the water or the current. It was in his head.